End of Watch

swear she glowed, like chocolate backlit by sun—and she says, 'You of all people should know. Our time here is short, unpredictable, and there is much to be done.'

Strange chick, I know, but she gets to me. I feel naked around her, like I couldn't keep a secret from her even if I wanted to. Which I don't. Weird, huh? I kept the card.

This is kind of interesting too.

Noticed a little statue on Bobby's desk this morning. He's had it a while but I never paid any attention to it until this morning. It's a pretty intricate carving of St. Michael. Struck me because Cammayo said his brother carved a whole series of statues for his mother. Bobby said Irie carved it for him. When I asked him Irie's real name, he tells me Romeo. Romeo was Cammayo's father's name. Romeo Cammayo. Then I remember Cammayo's mother saying 'bwoy.' Didn't think much of it at the time but she has a bit of an island lilt like Irie's.

See? That's how tired I am. Irie did it. He killed my father then came cross-country to settle in LA and snitch for me.

I was thinking I'd get him to carve a mini Madonna for Annie. A pocket pal she could keep in her purse. Little token of my appreciation.

All Tm knowing now fuh sure is dat some crazy white gull needfuh to get her some sleeps.

Later.

CHAPTER 46

For lunch the next day Frank grabbed a burrito from the bodega down the street and tracked Irie to his usual corner on Slauson Avenue. She parked and crossed the busy street.

'Off'cer Frank,' the old man grumbled. 'Tweet in one week. You gwan git me in trouble.'

'Don't worry,' she answered, waving off his concern. 'I don't want to talk shop. I want you to make something for me.'

'Yeah? What dat be?'

She spread her thumb and forefinger. 'Little statue, 'bout this big, of the Virgin Mary. Can you do that for me?'

Irie's face split and he padded back to his crate. 'Can I do dat,' he boasted. 'On'y wid my eyes closed!'

Frank studied the battered face, the rough scar under his right eye. 'Irie, mon, you look like you been rode hard and put away wet.'

'Ha, ha. Dat de trut'. So you wan' it 'bout six-inch big?'

'More like four. So you could carry it with you.'

'Ah, like fuh put in you handbag.'

'Yeah.'

'What kind wood you want? Light? Dark? Middle?'

'I don't know. Dark, I guess. Heavy. I want it to be solid. Have some weight behind it.'

Irie pulled at the stubble on his chin. 'I gotta see what I got to home. Gonna cost you t'irty-five, maybe fifty dolla'. 'Bout dat.'

'That's fine. I saw the Saint Michael you made Bobby. I want it like that.'

Irie grinned. 'I make you pretty Madonna. No worries.'

'You're good. Where'd you learn to carve to like that?'

He dismissed the question. 'Is a easy t'ing for me.'

'Someone had to show you though, right? Who was that?'

Shaking his head, he answered, 'No one. I jus' pick it up on me own.'

'Pretty amazing.' She tipped her head to the oranges. 'May as well give me a bag as long as I'm here.'

Irie handed her a bag and as Frank searched her pockets for money, she pretended to drop her penknife. Irie stooped to retrieve it.

' 'Ey. Dat's a nice knife,' he said, opening the blade.

'I never do anything with it except cut food,' Frank replied. 'It's not like the knives you have.'

'No, dat's still a good knife dere. Sharp,' he said, running a thumb along the edge.

'Think I could start carvin' wid it?'

'Sure.' He laughed. 'Sure you can. It's easy t'ing.' He folded the knife and handed it back.

Frank dropped it in her pocket. 'Call Bobby when you get the statue done, all right?'

'Sure t'ing. Like a week or so.'

She nodded, swinging the bag of oranges back to her car. As she eased into the flow of traffic she pulled on a latex glove. She felt silly, extracting the knife from her pocket and dropping it into an evidence bag. Running prints on John-John Romeo was doubtlessly going to be a waste of money. But it was her money and she'd sleep well at night.

The rest of the day was followed by more meetings downtown. Late that night, more like early on Wednesday morning, the squad caught a beating death. It was a merciful slam dunk in a bar full of witnesses, but then they caught a shooting Thursday evening. Their likeliest suspect, Armando Diaz, was the dead woman's husband but he'd gone to ground.

Friday night Frank told the squad to go home and get some sleep, come back first thing in the morning. She did the same, greeting her crew at six o'clock with doughnuts and fresh coffee. After getting them organized on the Diaz murder she left to shop for dinner and clean house. It didn't need cleaning—Frank had a housekeeper—but she dusted and vacuumed anyway, glad for the distraction. She was apprehensive about dinner, worried about where she and Gail stood, concerned she might trample their tender rapprochement.

She sorted through music, selecting albums that were romantic but not blatant, familiar but without memory. Arranging fleshy, pink roses she wondered if they were too flagrantly labial. She decided she didn't care—subtleties didn't count as pushing. A good thing because she was grilling a dozen oysters along with the steaks.

The semi-tropical winter day was cool enough for her to soak in a steamy tub. She read from the AA Big Book, sinking after a while up to her chin and reflecting. She found her hand coming out of the water, groping for the glass she habitually took into the bath with her.

'Jesus,' she whispered, alarmed at the treachery of corporal memory.

She dried off and rifled through her drawers until she found a tiny vial of oil. Wrinkling her nose, she daubed her temples with it. The woodsy scent reminded her of search-and-rescues deep in sweltering canyons, but Gail loved the stuff.

Naked, Frank stood in front of her closet. Casting a side glance at the mirror, she noted the loss of her alcoholic bloat and the transition of flab back into muscle. There was still a little belly and pockets of cellulite she couldn't get rid of but she looked healthy.

Not ropy and wizened like a gym rat trophy wife, but firm and fleshy. Healthy.

Patting her belly, Frank told it, 'Forty-five-year-old woman should have some droops and dimples. Shouldn't be mistaken for a walking stick of jerky.'

She grinned, dressing in snug jeans and a black turtleneck. Her heart sank when the phone rang and she saw Gail's number.

'Hey.'

'Hey, yourself. Are we still on for dinner?'

'Absolutely.'

'Great. I'll be over in about half an hour.'

'Good,' Frank breathed. 'Good.'

She fired up the grill and the oven, popping potatoes into the latter and tonging oysters over the former. As she worked she sipped apple juice on ice. She didn't particularly like the stuff but the glass satisfied her hand, the color tricked her eye and the rattling cubes calmed her ear.

Gail was closer to an hour getting there and Frank kicked herself for starting the oysters so soon. She knew when Gail said half an hour it meant at least three-quarters and that an hour stretched close to two. But her irritation vanished when Gail walked in.

'Good timing. I just pulled oysters off the barby.'

'Oysters?' Gail arched a meaningful brow.

'They're full of iron,' Frank answered over her shoulder. 'And they were on sale. Plus we gotta plump you up.